


Wallace and Gromit- The Strange case of Dimitri Andrei Timorg Petr Zhirkov

by mrAziz



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, Wallace & Gromit
Genre: Based on a true story that I made up, Edgy, Jumping the shark because I don’t know how to write, Mystery, Other, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-18 19:10:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18125300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrAziz/pseuds/mrAziz
Summary: This is an unnecessarily pretentious and edgy take on Wallace and Gromit. I don’t see this as part of Wallace and Gromit canon and I hope it never is. If you love all the charm and effort put into the Wallace and Gromit films then expect none of that here because I’m not talented or motivated.





	1. Component 1- A shite morning

 

It’s 7’o’clock n the morning and I’m tired as shit. I’ve spent the last hour checking all the bed and breakfast mechanisms so that Wallace doesn’t fucking die when falling out of bed. Imagine it. If I spent 2 hours extra in bed instead of fiddling with wires and getting shocked every ten seconds Wallace would be crushed by his own bed or maybe die from asphyxiation from his tank-top being shoved too vigorously over his head. But of course I don’t do this and continue to fuck up my circadian rhythms for unexplainable reasons. I just do not have the willpower to say to Wallace I WANT TO LEAVE BECAUSE YOU’RE BUFFOONISH TWAT AND YOU TREAT ME LIKE A SLAVE. I also can’t say that because I’m dog.

BEEP  
BEEP  
BEEP

I look at the noticeboard on the wall. The Breakfast light is flashing. Great. Just Great.

“MORNING GROMIT! It’s Wednesday” 

Yeah twat I know. I was still up at half past 1 THIS Wednesday in the basement building your tin-can contraption of a sofa bed that also has a built-in kettle and milk cooler to make tea while you were upstairs slumbering peacefully. I know exactly what day it is.

BEEP  
BEEP  
BEEP

Alright calm down mate. I pull the lever on the wall and I can hear Wallace’s bed creaking upwards from above. The hatch on the ceiling opens with a pair of trousers dangling down.

“TALLY HO” 

Prick

The bald Wallace drops from the ceiling hatch to slide into his dangling trousers and then land in his chair by the dining table. The mechanical wall arms and the clockwork tank-top o-matic then activate to graft his sleeves and tank-top onto his body. What kind of man has his sleeves separately attached to his clothes by robot arms in the walls? What kind of a man wears a fucking green tank top in the twenty first century? This odd man grins at me. 

“HELLO LAD!” Wallace yells obnoxiously. “I feel smashing after a long snooze!”

There really ought to be a law against people who are too jolly during tiring mornings.

“Get the kettle on Gromit” Wallace says while he pushes a button on the side of the dining table. Another mechanical arm (the whole house is riddled with them) extends from a hatch in the wall with a plate consisting of three slices of Wensleydale and places it in front of Wallace. He looks disappointed with his measly portions. Greedy bastard. 

Before he can complain, I grab the newspaper that I collected by the door earlier and pick up a pair of slippers with my dog teeth. I drop the slippers by Wallace’s feet and shove the newspaper in front of his face. 

“Oh thanks chuck! Wallace exclaims. “You’re the best dog a man could have”

Thanks for reminding me of my silent pathetic existence. 

I put the kettle on and it begins to boil in the backgroud while Wallace takes a bite out of his Wensleydale, eyes glued to the front page of the Morning Post. I sit down in my seat and prepare myself a bowl of Kellogg’s cornflakes. I’m 96% sure that dogs aren’t supposed to eat most kinds of cereal product advertised to humans but who cares. I need sustenance for later when Wallace tests the newest of his infernal crackpot machines on me. I go to eat a spoonful of nourishing milk and Kellogg’s when I suddenly hear the chilling sound of paper slowly ripping. It pierces my unsuspecting ear drums and makes my fur stand on end. I look up from my bowl of cornflakes to see Wallace’s face hidden behind the paper but his hands are visible, fingernails tearing into the newspaper like a wolf sinking its teeth into a carcass. His shaking hands lower the Morning Post revealing a face I don’t recognise. A face that has me frozen in terror in how twisted in anger it is. Chewed bits of Wensleydale mixed with saliva and enzymes fall from his lips. But his unblinking eyes are fixated on me. Eyes that usually displayed joy and blissful ignorance were locked on me channelling hatred, spite and malevolence. I open my mouth but nothing comes out and the spoon in my hand starts to tremble. What did I do? Was 3 slices of Wensleydale too little? Did he read my thoughts describing him as a twat? What’s wrong with my friend?

SNAP 

The boiling kettle releases and Wallace blinks. When his eyes reopened his hideous gaze of terror had vanished. His face fell into a state of bewilderment. He then notices the carnage of his own making. A ripped paper in his hands and cheese spewed all over the table. 

“Good grief....I...” Wallace splutters. “I’m sorry Gromit...Its nothing. I think the bounce has gone from my bungie.” 

He gets up in a hurry and stumbles out of the dining room while brushing specks of Wensleydale off his mouth. 

“Oh shoo” He mutters as he loses one of his slippers in the corridor from his agitation.

This would normally be amusing to see the silly man trip over his own feet and yell some obscure one-liner at his own haplessness. But I had just witnessed the most harmless man in Wigan and in the World in a mental state of utter fury. This is no laughing matter. 

I poured the tea into two cups and while it brewed I went over to Wallace’s chair to look at the discarded Morning Post, the front page crinkled and slashed from Wallace’s fit of malice. The main article’s headline states:

THIRTY YEARS ON SINCE DISAPPEARANCE OF INFLUENTIAL INVENTOR-HOW HIS INVENTIONS HAVE CHANGED THE WORLD

Under the heading is an image of a wiry, eccentric Russian-looking man with spiky hair and a goatee beard. His judgemental eyes gazed out of the photo, threatening to analyse my soul. A tear in the paper from where Wallace’s nail had been had spread across and had ripped open the mystery man’s forehead. Who is this inventor? Was he the reason why Wallace had turned so fiendish for a second. And worst of all I have a dreading feeling that I recognise this man. His features so similar yet so alien like a lost memory I cannot put my finger...fuck that..paw on. I grabbed the paper, poured milk into the cuppas and went after Wallace. The man may be a bumbling bastard but certainly not a crooked bastard and he needs my help.

I found Wallace in the living room slumped in his armchair. I hadn’t opened the curtains yet so the early light of the sun slipped through the gaps of the curtain ends and illuminated Wallace’s face. While the light on his face showed that the anxiety had gone, Wallace looked distant and was shrouded in the darkness of the room. It would be indeed be dark times if Wallace of all people started brooding so I went over to him and handed him his cuppa.

“Oh thanks lad” Wallace said in a quiet tone.

The cup trembled ever so slightly in his hand. Whether it was some hidden form of fear or anger I couldn’t tell. I then pulled out the newspaper from under my arm (or leg? My biology makes no fucking sense) and showed the front page to Wallace. The look of hatred once again flickered in his eyes but quickly extinguished. Was the guy bipolar or something? And I just hadn’t noticed for over twenty years?

“Well Gromit...” Wallace gulped. “Perhaps I better tell you what’s going on. Not good to keep your troubles bottled up eh?” 

Don’t worry mate. I’m here. You can tell me anything.

“But first!” Wallace sat up, his hapless energy returning. “I’m gonna need some more cheese!” 

I stomped out of the room to get the man some Gorgonzola.

“DON’T FORGET THE CRACKERS”

Cunt.

End of Component 1


	2. Component 2- An Inconceivable Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you like long poorly written conversations of one person talking a mute dog in a room while they drink tea. Then you might like this chapter. This chapter has some dark shit in it so I just want to note that I love Wallace and Gromit and I could never imagine Peter Sallis wanting to voice this unacceptable version of Wallace. So consider this like an alternate universe or just shit. Not a creepypasta tho that’s not pretentious enough.

Component 2- An Inconceivable Lie

“Oh I do like a bit of Gorgonzola!”

Wallace took a bite out of his wedge of Gorgonzola. He chewed the chunks down rather slowly as if he was trying to delay telling me the story behind the man in the paper. However his chewing sped up when he noticed I was sitting on the armchair opposite of him with a HURRY THE FUCK UP look on my face. Wallace drank some of his tea to help wash the cheese down and gulped. He was ready to spill the beans. 

“Where was I then lad? Wallace began. I held up the clawed Morning Post paper to refresh his pitiful short term memory. 

“OH yes...him...” Wallace recalled. “You wouldn’t know him Gromit. He was long before you and I were chums but I remember him well. Too well perhaps.”

Before we were chums? I remember Wallace as far back as well...since ever...but it’s a bit of blur. I guess dogs also have shite memories. Anyway, if I never met this Russian guy then this must be years back in the dark ages of the twentieth century. But why does he look so familiar then?

“He was an inventor like myself.” Wallace continued. “His name was Dmitri Andrei Timorg Petr Zhirkov” 

Jerkoff? Timorg Jerkoff? What kinda fucked up name is that?

“Odd that I remember his whole name. Although he was very memorable fellow indeed. Wallace took another sip of his tea hastily. “We were both chums-“

Wallace had friends? How was that possible?

“-or acquaintances rather.” 

Ok that’s more believable.

“We were both Uni lodgers in Bradford during the old psychedelic days of the 60s. We had nothing in common really. I preferred a lifestyle of solitary and creating little bits of tech from copper wires, halogen light bulbs and Heinz beans cans. While Dmitri preferred sustain himself with...well um...cocaine, chilli peppers and hookers, good grief.”

Cocaine, chilli peppers and hookers. That sent a shock through my nervous system hearing those words escape from Wallace’s mouth. 

“Having said that, Dimitri was a very remarkable fellow. A maverick but remarkable nonetheless. He was a natural when it came to machinery and could improvise in situations where there was a kerfuffle. There were times where got a little bored of the chilli cocaine so we would spend endless hours making random contraptions out anything we could afford or find in a skip. These contraptions often didn’t work, like the portable bread bin that was also a rat trap, and often put us behind on the rent but it passed the time”

It was odd hearing Wallace talk about something from his past. I’ve not sure how long I’ve been around now but I’ve always seen Wallace as this crackpot enigmatic bald man and could never completely fathom what he was like as a young person. 

“However, I found Dimitri’s personality a little trying at times. He spoke fluent English but this meant he could direct sarcasm at everyone and would judge others around him as lacking in intellect while he was the magnificent inventor.

Wallace face darkened a little and his eyes refused to meet mine. 

“He would often demean me whilst we were inventing together. This was probably because of his reliance on cocaine but he would critique my ideas for creations and yell at me лактозозависимый ублюдок, whatever that means, whenever I stopped for some 40 winks or camembert.

‘Lactose-dependent bastard.’ I need to start using that. I suppressed my laughter though because this was an old wound for Wallace.

“We were both a different box of frogs when it came to inventing. I adore creating odd machines that have charm and grace while Dimitri was obsessed with efficiency and progression. He once smashed a device of mine called The Wallace Earl Grey and Diesel Recycler because he claimed it was insignificant to humanity.”

What a pretentious jerkoff. I mean he’s not wrong but have some fucking manners. 

“Dimitri wanted to make inventions that changed the world while he saw me as just some amateur. He wanted to make inventions he’d be remembered for and be hailed by all. He was looking for solutions to war and suffering...even death.” Wallace trailed off. 

The whole room seemed to drop below room temperature and a ghostly chill emerged. I had no fucking clue what Wallace meant by DEATH but a sense of familiarity crept out my subconscious seemed to understand. I am fucked up or something?

“Perhaps that was simply his drug habits getting the better of him, the poor sod. But anyway, we both finished uni at the end of the decade and left Bradford to go our separate ways. In the years that followed, I often heard news about him that he was influential in the war business.”

The war business?

“The kerfuffle of the Cold War.” Explained Wallace. “He worked on developing new types of weaponry while I was living in a garage experimenting with alternative ways of curdding cheese, haha! Who exactly he was working for was unclear but his machines of war were revolutionary. Even, today you can count your coppers that many a tank or pistol today has its roots from Dmitri’s designs. The man eventually was nominated for a Nobel prize but he never collected it...”

I noticed Wallace’s knuckles clenched slightly at the arm chair rests. 

“One day he just vanished into thin air. I remember seeing it in the paper. The police found no trace of where he’d gone or reason to why he had gone...But his legacy goes on. His inventions are remembered...” Wallace spat that last part out as of it were a nutritious piece of food filled with vitamins he eaten by mistake.

I started to hear increasingly vicious droplets of rain hitting the streets outside. The light of sun slowly retreated back from the curtain gaps as the rain clouds started to close in. 

“Bamboozling but he was a peculiar fellow. In the whole time I knew him, the man only lived on chilli peppers, hells bells”

CRASH. The sound of thunder boomed out of nowhere ominously while the rain continued to throw down cats and dogs. Wallace seemed to take no notice.

“Imagine centring your diet solely around one type of fodder, dear me!” Wallace exclaimed and then stuffed his mouth with cheese like a hamster.

I took this as the end of the story. Wallace gobbled the Gorgonzola but he seemed unsatisfied and uneasy. I went over to him and awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. The guy is my friend but like I can’t hug him because that’s weird or say don’t worry homeboy because I’m a dog. But the very least I can do is to be there for the poor guy.

“Thanks for listening chuck.” Wallace said smiling for the first time in a while. STOP you have cheese in your teeth. “It must be boring listening to an old blockhead like me talk about the old days and some cuckoo inventor he knew. But thanks for listening. You’re the best dog a man could have Gromit!”

We clinked our tea mugs together. A tradition among man and dog. In this house at least. 

“Gosh, I’ve been rambling on for ages!” Wallace chuckled. “My tea has gone cold.” 

Alas. There’s a special place in Hell for people who commit that crime.

“TELL YOU WHAT LAD.” Wallace beamed. “Why don’t we give that Wallace tea bed-o-matic a try downstairs in the basement. I bet it brews a fine cuppa of Earl Grey.”

You know the very least you could do would be include my name on the machines as well. Or at least say Wallace and Co or even Wallace and slaves. Just something to acknowledge the canine who actually built the damn thing. 

“I’ll meet you down there in 5 chum. Wallace got out of his armchair and strolled out of the room. “I’m just gonna get me-self some Wensleydale and a cheese knife.”

Well at least the guy is happy again. Although he didn’t exactly explain why General Jerkoff and his cocaine made him flip earlier. As for that dreading feeling that I know the guy. Well, he looks like a twat in that picture and I’ve seen a lot of twats over the years. Feathers McGraw, that robo cunt Preston...they’re all the same in the end in my head. 

I went out of the living room and headed for the basement. Wallace’s out of tune whistling could be heard from his room while he scurried around looking for cheese like a mouse. I was about to open the basement door when I noticed a framed picture. It’s a piece from the past of Wallace and me celebrating my 2nd birthday. God I was a little bastard back then and Wallace even had hair and a beard. Its a funny little moment. Sadly it’s a moment I don’t remember so well. I feel like it happened but the memory is scummy and wrong like a broken teabag in hot water, leaves floating and unraveling. But still, Wallace has always been there. Despite him being hopeless and that he makes me make random shit for him, he’s a cool guy. I’m lucky to be his dog. I opened the basement door and stepped into darkness. 

I was below the house yet the sound of the menacing rain and thunder echoed through the dark walls. Descending down the old staircase feels like a nostalgia trip after all that talk with Wallace about the past. To think that we built rockets, murderous knitting machines and psychotic penguin traps down here with only a few coppers. I know I said that I hate the late working hours and tiring mornings but in a way it’s purposeful. It’s simply what I do. A dog who builds shit. Not the worst life in the end I suppose. I could’ve been one of those dogs who gets their bollocks electrocuted and doused in acid by animal product testing sadists. I reached the end of the stairs and walked to the Wallace AND CO tea and bed-o-matic. I was about to switch it on to brew when lighting struck and illuminated the whole place. In a second I could see every nook and cranny in the basement. All the mice,all the nuts and bolts, leftover sheep wool....and a cracked framed picture in the corner of my eye. What?I know everything in this basement. This is my domain. What the fuck is that? A small detail I know but I had never ever seen that before. And yet it felt familiar, like how Dmitri Jerkface was familiar, and that sense was begging for me to go over and look. The thunder erupted in the rain chaos outside. I crept over slowly to where I had seen the picture. When I got close enough I could make out its details. Discarded face down on the floor and it’s wooden frame was similar to the picture I saw earlier upstairs but it was cracked and had splinters. I carefully picked the picture up. KKKKRKKHH. What the fuck. The wall just opened up in front of me like the doors to Dracula’s castle. But I could hear the sounds of ropes pulling and machinery droning. The picture was a mechanism or key of sorts. Some kind of wireless mechanism to some secret room. I have no idea what is going on. I look at the image in the mechanism key image thing and...shit. What. The. Shit. It’s a portrait of Dmitri. The same image in the paper. But his eyes had crosses slashed over them...so did his mouth...and his forehead had a straight rip....reminiscent of the tear Wallace had clawed into the newspaper forehead of Dmitri earlier. Fuck. This really fucked. Something tells me that I shouldn’t go into wherever this wall door leads to. It can’t be good. But it’s Wallace. Wallace never lies...or scars images of a friend who was twat to him...until today at least. He’s a good guy. It’s not like he’s got some underground sex dungeon or something...right? But why hasn’t he told me about this random secret room. Did he forget? For like thirty years in the time I’ve known him? No. No, the way he reacted to the newspaper is not a coincidence. I can’t be blind to this shit right now. I’ve got to see. I stepped into the secret room. It was pitch black and I couldn’t even see my own paws in front of my face. But I recognised something. The feeling of a harsh metallic coldness cut into my skin was familiar, like how the stab of a heroin needle is familiar to a junkie. It was like I had been here before. 

Harsh strobe lights from above activated and burned into my fully dilated pupils. At least I’m not tired anymore. But that’s because my fight and flight system is stirring shit up. I have never been this scared shitless and I’ve had my share of life-threatening moments. But this was room was something beyond. The lights illuminated brightly but the corners of the room were still dominated by shadows. What lights shone on presented a room that reeked of sterilisation and falseness. The air tasted artificial and hurt to breathe and coldness began to creep into my spine making my paranoia skyrocket. I used to think Wallace’s basement was grim and hoarded with random shit but it was homely and welcoming. This room in comparison felt like a Nazi lab in a concentration camp. As I walked through the Nazi cellar I saw all kinds of twisted pipes and boiling vats. Is Wallace making meth or something? But then I passed on operating slab with a tray holding a number of scalpels and bone saws. Then there was a cage reminiscent of those cages from a chicken battery farm or tiger cages in the Vietnam war where there was barely enough space to move, let alone breathe in. On the wires of the cage (yep not bars razor sharp barbed wire) where these spidery electrodes entwined themselves with the cage emitting a faint buzzing sound. Then I reached the coldest part of the room and discovered the cause for freezing temperature. I stood before some sort of chamber with a glass encasing and tubes on the side pumping something into the chamber. What was inside I could not make out because the glass was completely covered with frost from the inside. It was some sort of cryogenic freezing chamber. Did Wallace make this? I mean usually he puts his name on the shit he makes so maybe he stole it but why would he have it anyway and then not say a word about it? Although he didn’t mention anything about electric tiger cages and operating slabs either. But most importantly, who or what the fuck is inside there? What is Wallace hiding from me?There was a set of controls and buttons in the front of the chamber. There was a button that had a symbol that represented heat or defrost. Maybe this was just some giant microwave. A giant Nazi-like microwave that was scaled to fit humans. I pressed the button, paws trembling and unsure what would happen. The tubes ceased pumping for a second and then began again but sounding more rapid. The ice on the glass started to thaw. It was heating up. As the ice cleared, I could make out a figure inside. This figure seemed to be cuffed to some slab like the other one in the room but this one placed vertically in the chamber. The ice continued to thaw but the chills only increased. What is it? What is it? Then I saw him. Fuck. Oh please no. No this can’t be real...This is fucked...It was Dmitri. Cuffed to the slab with his body encased in frost but it was him. His eyes were open but there was no life in them for the top of his skull had been sawn and ripped off crudely. And his brain was gone. He was not frozen in here to be kept alive. He was frozen in here to be preserved like a trophy on display. Wallace...what have you done?

“Gromit?”

I snapped around to see the face of Wallace but it wasn’t him. There was no innocent hapless look in his eyes or even that look of regret earlier. His eyes were dark like a shark’s eye. Like a doll’s. He was smiling but it expressed narcissism and falseness as if he was rotten inside like the surface of an apple that’s been infested with maggots. The scariest part was his stance. He just stood there motionless, partly hidden by the shadows that were out of the reach of the lights above. He wasn’t even breathing. 

“You were supposed to make the tea, Gromit.” Wallace said in his usual welcoming Yorkshire voice which made me quiver with fear. “I simply told you to make a cuppa but you couldn’t do that. You’ve let me down, lad.”

This can’t be Wallace. I know Wallace. He’s a harmless twat and he’d be fidgeting around like mad trying to explain what’s going on. Wait no. He wouldn’t be explaining anything because he wouldn’t done any of this fucked up bollocks in the first place. He’d be shitting himself right now like me right now. This is an imposter. A hustler. A psychopathic cunt. But deep down, I know it’s Wallace. Everything I’ve seen today confirms that the Wallace I knew, the Wallace who celebrated my birthday, the Wallace I called a cunt constantly in my head because he’s a frustrating friend, the Wallace I’ve known for nearly thirty years was the imposter and this psychopathic cunt before me was the real Wallace. I started walking backwards in confusion and panic. I usually improvise in these situations but right I have no fucking idea what to do. This psycho has lied to me all my life and is capable of anything. I’ve just got to get the fuck out of here. Fuck this. Fuck this. I stumbled back to the end of the cellar and went straight into a desk or table or something which cripples my back. I look around desperately, pupils absorbing everything in the room so that everything is a blur and I have no clue what Wallace is doing. Then I looked at the desk I hit my back against. It’s piled with papers scribbled with scientific symbols and formulas that appear to me like the scribblings of sadist. Then I noticed sheets of paper that looked like blueprints of some sort. But not for a machine. It was the diagram of a human skull showing dotted lines and instructions of how to remove the brain with pencil scribblings all around it. Then I saw the next demonic sheet of paper and my system froze,my will to escape completely forgotten. The sheet presented a process of what looked like transplanting the brain into another body. But not a human body. The body of a dog....a beagle. No. Oh no. This cannot be...I have to look away. Only to see Wallace looming over me like a disappointed dog owner who’s just seen his dog shit all over the floor.

“Well...No use prevaricating around the bush then. Wallace sighed. “But you’re a good dog, Gromit. You’re better off as a dog than you ever were as that despicable Russian on chilli cocaine who did good for no one. This is who you are. I’ve made you the best version of yourself.”

NO. YOU DIDNT. CUNT. SHIT. FUCK. IVE ALWAYS BEEN GROMIT. I AM A DOG. THATS MY PURPOSE. THIS IS WHO I AM. IM GROMIT...IM NOT JERKOFF. IM NOT TIMORG JERKOFF. Timorg...  
T I M O R G  
G R O M I T  
no  
No   
Niet   
niet  
NO   
MY LIFE IS A LIE   
MY LIFE IS A LIE  
MY LIFE IS A LIE   
IM GROMI-

Then it went black. And then there was nothing.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could do chapter 3 but who actually wants that?


End file.
